On The Ledge
by Squiet
Summary: "I was on that ledge once too, Molly. Remember?" Involves a specific person standing on a ledge, another specific person trying to stop her and a bunch of tears and feels. Review and share feels! Rated T just for some no-no language. ONE-SHOT


**Hey you guys!**

***Dodges tissue boxes and cutouts of Colin Morgan***

**My wonderful other fic which is a Merlin/Doctor Who crossover hasn't been updated in eternity. I am genuinely sorry. But why? Well, bloody pre-IB classes and SCHOOL IN GENERAL (I'm a band geek by the way, my excuse is 'I have band') have kept me from fanficing. Oh, and Sherlock.**

**I watched Sherlock and I now ship Sherlolly.**

***High fives* No seriously though, I've been weeping for series 3.**

**This fic is meant to make you cry but if it doesn't it means my English teacher was right...my only weakness is overall affect.**

**Enjoy and don't die. :3**

Molly thought of how cliché these scenes were in movies; one person would look up and point, crying in terror as a complete stranger stood on the ledge. Suddenly someone else would point, than another would point, and soon the entire street looked like a scene out of the Hunger Games, all pointing at one person.

_They'd be looking at me, _she thought to herself, watching people pass by on the ground below. _But these days, no one looks at the sky. No one tilts their chin up or feel curiosity to survey their surroundings. They'll be staring at the ground once I get there._

She approached the ledge. Gritty concrete, that was. It was slightly raised so she took a step up to stand on it, trying to avoid looking all the way down. She looked up at the building across the street, spreading her arms out wide. Then she began to cry.

_I'm going to do it. _She thought to herself, hearing cries spill out of her mouth. _Molly Hooper's fall. And this one is going to be real._

There would be no plans made, no questions like 'What do you need?' or any statements like 'You do count.' There would be no regrets, no sympathy and no tears—but actually it was too late for that. None at all.

She watched as her tears fell down, down to the ground. Seeing how long it took to reach the pavement below she wondered how fast she would fall. She wondered if the people down there knew it wasn't the clouds crying but her.

She slowly closed her eyes, letting the tears out like a waterfall and the cries without regret. She was about to do it. Molly was about to let herself go and fall.

Behind her, a door slammed open in a big _boom _and she just couldn't help but cry even louder. Her heart started to beat faster and something stirred in her stomach. "Go the fuck away Sherlock!"

But the footsteps stopped. _Oh, god. _She could just imagine him standing behind her, his coat swaying in the breeze, his deadpan face and his piercing, blue eyes. He just didn't want to lose the naïve pathologist who gave him access to the lab. He was silent. He listened to Molly sob and sniff, a human defense mechanism.

"I was on that ledge once too, Molly. Remember?" he said softly. He stared at Molly's back, her shoulders jumping up and down. "Remember?"

Molly continued to sob as Sherlock took one demanding step forward. "Molly, do you remember?"

"Of course I do!" she cried. Sick at heart, Molly lifted a foot off the ledge and let it dangle on the side.

"Molly!" Sherlock called her name in a commanding voice. He threw out a hand, 10 feet away from her. "Molly, put your foot on the ledge right now."

"What makes you think I'll listen to you?" her voice was muffled as she buried her face in her scarf, wiping away some tears.

Sherlock was astonished. "Please, do tell."

"I ask you if you wanted to go get coffee with me and what do you tell me? Black, two sugars please. You tell me my hair looks nice and use me to get access to bodies!" Molly stared at her dangling foot. "For Christ's sake Sherlock you're the last person I'd want on this roof!"

Sherlock's stretched out hand folded into a fist, returning to his side. He just stood staring at petite Molly Hooper, her white lab coat swaying in the breeze and her brown loafer that covered her foot almost slipping off it. She was literately one step away from death. Sherlock was aghast, but his face was solemn. He resisted the urge to run forwards and pull her off the ledge but he knew Molly could fall faster than he could run.

"Molly, when I was on that ledge I was doing exactly what you're doing. You were saying your last words and you were sobbing. But it hasn't occurred to you how dearly you'll be missed."

"By who?"

"By so many people!" Sherlock took a few daring steps forward. "Your coworkers will feel sick to the heart when they pass by and you're not there at work! Your mother will miss her only bloody daughter! And poor John, he'd had to cope with losing both of us!"

Molly whimpered at the thought of John, sulking around 221B. Molly visited him a lot and it seemed her visits made him smile just a teensy bit brighter. She tasted salty tears as she closed her eyes, hoping the sick feeling in her stomach would stop. "Go away, will you?"

"I'm not going until you get off the ledge."

"I'm not getting off until you give me a _good _reason to get off of the ledge!"

Sherlock huffed. One side of him, the irritated one, wanted to grab her perfectly straight hair and pull her off of that ledge. Another side, the patient one, wanted to plead, cry. He reached out following along with the irritated side but he restrained, knowing it wasn't a good idea to. But what would Sherlock do? What would he do instead of shouting out meaningless sugary things like they were valentines in the mail? He had no bloody idea on what to do in situations like this because he wasn't the kind of person who did something like this. "Molly, I swear to god…"

His hands were in fists so tight they turned a whiter shade of pale, his body so tense the wind beating against him had no effect. He wanted to say the right words to get her to walk off of that concrete death-trap, to get her to stop crying, go back to her flat and curl up with Toby with a cup of tea in one hand. Sherlock did not want his pathologist to fall.

"You do count, you know." Sherlock threw out desperately, hoping he'd spew out the right words. "I need you, for Christ's sake. Molly Hooper, if you walk off of that ledge right now I'll be happy to take you out for dinner."

A list of things Molly would've wanted to hear from his lips started to formulate in Sherlock's mind, but none seemed to be taking affect. He started to say things like 'Molly, you're precious.' Or 'You'll never survive the fall like I did!' and he even heard himself shouting out a few times, 'I'd jump off of that ledge again in your place!'

It was in the middle of a babble about the first time they met and how Sherlock was immediately impressed by the work she did when Molly finally interrupted him, screaming at the top of her lungs, "SHUT UP!"

Molly sniffed a few times and took in a deep breath. "Thank you." She paused for a moment, cherishing silence. "For god's sake Sherlock, you never asked me _what _I wanted to hear exactly."

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows, feeling as if he had missed something. "Molly, what _do _you want to hear?"

The pathologist turned around, facing Sherlock. Her face was red and heat crawled up her face as she locked eyes with the detective. She indulged herself with his beautiful, blue eyes before saying, "I want you to ask me why I'm standing on this ledge in the first place."

Sherlock frowned. He deducted that it had something to do with traumatic stress she had to go through following his fake death; reporters at her doorstep every single day, rumors about her being Sherlock's secret wife, rumors, even more rumors, even receiving death threats from admirers of Sherlock's demanding to see him or she'll die on the way to work. She tried cutting once too, but Sherlock saw that coming and hid every single sharp thing in her flat before she could even get home. He was intrigued, asking, "Why are you on this ledge in the first place?"

Molly looking down at her feet. "This world is a cruel place. I've always known that. Ever since I was little girl I saw others getting bullied and the wars on the telly. I was never under the impression we lived in a utopia. But the world's getting too cruel. It's not about the effects of the fall," –Sherlock was taken aback at that—"but it's because I just think I don't want to do this anymore, you know? My life these days are waking up, brushing off death threats and reporters, having some breakfast, walking to St. Bart's and examining bodies. I'd go home and watch some telly then go sleep and do it all over again.

"What I'm trying to say Sherlock…is that I have no purpose in life anymore." She looked over her shoulder at the people strolling down below. "A lot of them do. I bet if you looked down there you'd be able to pick out 7 mothers out of the people on the street, some teachers and some doctors. They have lives. I don't."

Molly looked back up at Sherlock, who stood silently, still, staring at her. "Well, aren't you going to say anything? Wonderful Sherlock Holmes?"

Sherlock said nothing. "Oh for god's sake, say something smart! Speak in that fast manner you always do like you're at the top of the world! Use the art of speech and convince me that I'm still worth it! Come on!"

"Your stammer is gone."

"—erm, what?"

"Your stammer." Sherlock stared at her intensely. "You'd always sound nervous when you talk with me but not here."

"Well I'm about to end my life."

"You're lying."

"That's stupid!" retorted Molly. "Why are you saying such stupid things?"

"You don't want to end your life that's why you were sobbing. But once we started talking you've stopped crying and you even seem comfortable in my presence. Considering you can just jump off right now, I'm pretty sure the man in the lobby of St. Bart's is waiting to see you fall which could only mean you were brought up to this by Moriarty's network. The man in the lobby is in the cupboard on the second floor right now enjoying the company of the hospital's brooms." Sherlock winked at her. "Now come down, off of that ledge, you're coming with me to Scotland Yard to turn in one of Moriarty's men."

Molly frowned. "You never fail to figure it out, Sherlock."

Sherlock let a genuine smile sprout out onto his mouth. "Well, I…"

But before he could finish his sentence, Molly had pivoted on her heel and was now facing the building from across the street. In less than a second she was nearly about to free fall. For a short moment she knew that she would be let free of the shackles of pain and let go to fly up to the heavens and leave this awful planet. Before she could feel the wind on her face she was jerked back up onto the roof, strong arms wrapping around her stomach like a seatbelt. Her arms were above her head as she screamed, shouted and squirmed, crying, "LET GO OF ME!"

But Sherlock wouldn't budge, burying his head in her shoulder. A frown was forced onto his face as he tried to ignore her commands and wait for her to stop the act. _Sweet Molly, _purred his innermost thoughts, _never, ever leave me…_

It was eternity until Molly stood silent, still, Sherlock's warm arms around her waist and his sweet, warm breath against her neck. She knew it wasn't meant to be intimate but she thought it so. They stood like that for a while, until the silence was broken like glass.

"There is a sniper on the building across the street, and he'll shoot us before we can run."

"He's having a cup of tea with the bodies in the morgue." Replied the muffled, baritone voice of Sherlock Holmes.

Molly let out a choked laugh, feeling relief pound down on her like a waterfall. _The girls in administration will love this story. _She thought to herself, resting her hands on Sherlock's.


End file.
